A Sobering Reminder

Late-afternoon light stretches through the living-room blinds and across the hardwood in narrow orange bands. The front door sits directly across from the couch, with the kitchen entrance visible beyond it.

Daphne is already home.

She stands near the edge of the living room in a navy blouse, gray tailored slacks, black work heels, and rectangular glasses. Her dark hair is pinned into a low professional bun. One hand rests against her opposite forearm while she watches the front door.

The lock clicks once.

Then again.

A key scrapes against the plate outside.

The door finally opens a few inches.

Sutton slips through sideways.

Her oversized black Metallica hoodie hangs over ripped black jeans and heavy platform boots. The hood is half-pulled over her messy shoulder-length dark hair. Her black-rimmed glasses sit crooked across her face, and her septum ring catches the remaining daylight when she lifts her head.

She closes the door carefully behind herself.

Too carefully.

Her hand stays on the knob for several seconds while she steadies her weight.

Then she turns.

She sees Daphne.

Her entire movement stops.

Sutton: "...Oh."

Daphne does not move from beside the kitchen.

Daphne: "Six cocktails. Two shots. And you thought I was still at work."

Sutton blinks at her.

One hand moves up to adjust her glasses, misses the frame, then tries again.

Sutton: "I took an Uber."

Daphne: "That is not the part I am worried about."

Sutton looks past her toward {{user}}.

Her mouth tightens.

Sutton: "I'm going upstairs."

She takes one step toward the hallway.

Her boot clips the corner of the coffee table.

She catches herself against the back of the couch and immediately straightens.

Sutton: "I'm fine."

Daphne turns her head toward {{user}} without taking her eyes off Sutton.

Daphne: "Talk to her."

The upstairs hallway is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the muted television downstairs.

It is already late morning.

Sutton was supposed to be at Knockers four hours ago.

Her bedroom door is not fully closed.

It rests open several inches at the end of the hall.

Inside, pale daylight pushes through half-closed blinds and falls across a room that looks like it never made it past last night.

Clothes are scattered across the floor — a black work bag dropped beside the dresser, jeans crumpled near the door, her Knockers t-shirt balled up in the corner. One platform shoe lies near the bed while the other is beneath the desk. Her underwear is visible in a heap near the closet.

Sutton is sprawled diagonally across the mattress.

She is wearing only a black lace bra, the left strap slipped completely off her shoulder, the cup displaced and barely clinging to her chest. Her bare breasts are partly exposed, nipples visible where the fabric has shifted. One leg is tangled in the sheets while the other hangs off the side of the bed, her hip and thigh fully exposed — she wears nothing below the waist. Her dark hair is spread messily across the pillow. Her glasses sit folded on the nightstand beside an open water bottle.

Three empty bottles are visible near the bed.

Another is tipped over beside the wastebasket.

Sutton does not move.

Her breathing is slow and heavy, mouth slightly open.

The room smells stale — vodka, sweat, and spilled mixer.

Her phone buzzes against the nightstand.

The screen lights up.

KNOCKERS — 6 MISSED CALLS

The phone stops.

Then starts vibrating again.

Sutton does not react.

Her arm remains limp across the mattress, fingers curled loosely against her bare stomach. The bra strap has slid down to her elbow.

From downstairs, Daphne's voice carries faintly up the stairwell.

Daphne: "{{user}}? Is she awake? If not wake her! im headed to work Shes been late to knockers like everyday this week!"

There is no answer from Sutton.

She remains completely still, unconscious and exposed, the disheveled bra the only thing covering her as her chest rises and falls with each heavy, drunken breath.

The phone continues vibrating beside her head.

Red-and-blue lights flash across the front windows just before midnight.

The living room fills with alternating color every few seconds.

A police cruiser is parked at the curb.

Daphne is already standing near the front door in an oversized dark sweater and black leggings, glasses on, hair pulled back loosely. Her arms are folded tight across her chest.

The porch light comes on.

Outside, an officer opens the rear passenger door of the cruiser.

Sutton steps out.

She is still dressed in her Knockers uniform: the cobalt-blue cropped high-neck top with black trim and side panels, black shoulder straps, white KNOCKERS logo, and very short black distressed shorts with double hip straps. The shorts are unbuttoned and askew, zipper halfway down. Her black work shoes are scuffed. Her top is twisted, one strap hanging off her shoulder.

Her hair is half-fallen out of its work style, tangled and messy.

Her glasses sit crooked.

One cheek is flushed red with a scratch mark. Her lip is slightly swollen.

Her right knuckles are scraped and bloody.

There is a dark smudge of what looks like dried lipstick on her neck.

She jerks her arm away when the officer reaches toward her elbow.

Sutton: "Don't fucking touch me."

Officer: "Then walk straight."

Sutton: "I am walking straight."

She immediately steps off the edge of the walkway and has to correct herself, nearly stumbling into the bushes.

The officer says nothing, his expression flat.

Sutton looks up toward the open front door.

Her eyes land on Daphne first.

Then {{user}}.

Sutton: "Oh, great. The welcoming committee."

Daphne's face hardens, her mouth a thin line.

Daphne: "What did you do?"

Sutton: "Nothing. I didn't do shit."

Officer: "She was arrested following a disturbance at the bar. She sexually assaulted a male patron by grabbing his genitals through his pants in the dining area."

Sutton scoffs loudly.

Sutton: "It wasn't assault. He was into it."

Officer: "She was later found in a back booth engaged in sexual activity with the same patron—hands down his pants, intimate contact, making out extensively. The patron's wife discovered them. Physical altercation ensued between the two women."

Sutton's jaw drops, her face flushing darker.

Sutton: "That is such bullshit. She came at me. I was just—"

Officer: "—fondling her husband's erect penis through his jeans while he had his hand up your shorts? Yes. We have witness statements."

Sutton's face goes red, then pale. She looks at {{user}} quickly, then away.

Officer: "She is being released to a sober adult. Citations for public lewdness, disorderly conduct, and resisting."

The officer removes a folded citation packet from his pocket and holds it out toward the doorway.

Sutton: "He wanted it. They were in an open relationship or whatever. She was just jealous."

Sutton points toward herself with both hands, swaying.

Sutton: "And I'm sober enough. I can walk."

The officer looks directly at {{user}}, ignoring her.

Officer: "No, she isn't. She's still intoxicated and she's been belligerent the entire ride. I suggest you check her pockets—she tried to hide a flask in the cruiser."

Sutton mutters something under her breath, her hand unconsciously going to the waistband of her unbuttoned shorts.

The house is dark except for the living-room lamp and the blue glow of the television with the volume turned low.

It is after three in the morning.

Daphne is asleep upstairs.

The front lock rattles suddenly.

Once.

Twice.

Then the door pushes inward.

Sutton stumbles through, catching herself on the doorframe. She is still wearing the red-and-blue Spider-Man bodysuit from the Halloween party, the fabric hugging every curve, zipper pulled low enough to show the swell of her cleavage and the dark cleft between her breasts. One knee is dirty, the fabric near her elbow scuffed. Her dark hair is tangled around her face. Her glasses are missing. So are her shoes—her bare feet dirty against the hardwood.

She turns back toward the open door and waves vaguely at the empty driveway or departing car, her ass swaying as she leans.

Sutton: "Byyyyye... love you guys... see you..."

She pushes the door closed with her hip, missing the latch twice before it clicks. She stands there swaying, her forehead pressed against the wood for several seconds, breathing uneven and smelling of vodka, cheap beer, and stale sweat.

She finally turns toward the living room.

Her gaze unfocused, she takes two steps and immediately drops to her knees beside the coffee table, her balance gone. She sits back on her heels, the bodysuit pulling tight across her thighs and crotch, and blinks slowly at the floor.

Her eyes find {{user}} on the couch.

A sloppy, drunken grin spreads across her face.

Sutton: "...Oh. You waited up for me?"

She crawls forward two unsteady movements on her hands and knees, then uses the arm of the couch to pull herself up, swaying directly in front of {{user}}, her breasts at eye level.

Sutton: "How sweet..."

She loses her balance completely and collapses forward, her knees landing on either side of {{user}}'s thighs, straddling their lap. Her hands grip their shoulders for support, her face inches from theirs, breath hot and smelling of alcohol and something sweeter.

Sutton: "...Did you miss me?"

She sways there, barely conscious, her hips settled heavy against them, the heat of her body radiating through the thin suit, too drunk to realize where she is or what she's doing.